Villanueva de las Torres

Sixty kilometres northeast of Granada, the A-92 unravels into a ribbon of olive groves so uniform they look upholstered from the sky. Turn south at the Gorafe exit, follow the GR-4105 for twenty minutes, and the tarmac narrows to a single-lane track that climbs through chalky hills. Mobile signal drops first; then the temperature dips three degrees. At 633 m, Villanueva de las Torres appears: a scatter of white cubes clinging to a ridge, satellite dishes glinting like small mirrors against the terracotta roofs. The only sound is a tractor labouring in bottom gear and, somewhere below, the low rush of thermal water being piped to the Balneario de Alicún.

The Spa That Predates the Romans

The village’s calling card is not its church, nor its olive oil, but a set of naturally warm springs that bubble out of the ground at 35 °C. The Balneario de Alicún sits two kilometres south of the centre, a low-slung 1990s building that looks more municipal leisure centre than luxury retreat. Inside, the main pool is tiled in cobalt, the colour chosen to mask the high mineral content that stains everything ochre within weeks. A day-pass costs €18 (2024) and buys you unlimited time in the thermal pool, a towel, and access to the sun-trap terrace where Spanish retirees perform elaborate aqua-aerobics to Radio María. Weekday mornings are virtually empty; by Saturday noon the car park fills with Granada number-plates and the decibel level rises accordingly. Bring flip-flops—the bottom is pitted travertine and the minerals rough-cut your feet like pumice.

The water smells faintly of rotten egg, proof of its sulphur load, and locals claim it dissolves everything from arthritis to hangovers. Whether or not that’s true, the outdoor pool at dusk is irresistible: steam coils upwards, swallows dive through it, and the Sierra de Baza turns mauve in the background. There is no posh spa shop, nobody offers you a cucumber slice, and the vending machine dispenses crisps instead of kombucha. British visitors tend to emerge wide-eyed at the honesty of it all—no one tries to upsell a bamboo massage.

A Village That Measures Time by Bread and Bells

Back in the pueblo, daily rhythm is set by the bakery (open 06:30–13:00) and the church bell that strikes the quarter hours through the night. The population hovers just above five hundred; enough to support two bars, one grocer, and a pharmacy, but not a cash machine that works reliably. Both Bar Encina and Bar Plaza will advance you money against a card if you ask nicely, provided you order a coffee first.

Houses are built staircase-fashion up the hill, so front doors on the north side open at roof level on the south. Passages narrow to shoulder width, then widen into pocket plazas where the town hall has squeezed in a few benches and a jacaranda. The parish church, Inmaculada Concepción, is open only before Mass (19:00 weekdays, 12:00 Sunday) but the caretaker will unlock it if you catch him on his way back from the bread van. Inside, the nave smells of beeswax and damp stone; an eighteenth-century retablo depicts the Virgin surrounded by gilded clouds that look like cauliflowers. Donations go into a perspex box marked “for the roof”; slates still slip each winter.

Architecture buffs should wander Calle La Fuente, where two manor houses retain marble columns and wrought-iron grilles dating from the nineteenth-century olive boom. One has a cracked coat of arms showing five olives and a castle; the owner, a retired teacher, will invite you in to see the patio if you compliment his geraniums. There is no ticket office, no audio guide—just the feeling that you have stumbled into someone’s private history and been asked to wipe your feet.

Walking on Water (or at least Beside It)

The Toril irrigation channel, hacked out by the Iberians 2,800 years ago, still carries snow-melt from the Sierra Harana to the village fields. A 6 km stretch has been cleaned up for walkers: flat, dog-friendly, shaded by tamarisk and wild pomegranate. Start at the cement factory on the GR-4105—the gatekeeper waves you through if you say “paseo”—and follow the stone conduit west. Kingfishers flash turquoise above the water, and the only climb is a short rise to an old watchtower that once warned of bandits. Allow two hours there-and-back, plus time to photograph the reflection of olive trunks in the channel: the monochrome stripes look like a Bridget Riley canvas.

Serious hikers can continue south to the badlands of Gorafe, where clay chimneys stand like ruined termite mounds. The path is way-marked but waterless; in summer the temperature can touch 40 °C, so start at dawn and carry three litres per person. Winter is milder—think Herefordshire March—but night frosts are common; pack a fleece even in May.

What to Eat and When to Eat It

Lunch is served 14:00–16:00; turn up earlier and the chef is still at the baker collecting bread. The spa restaurant does a failsafe three-course “menu turístico” (grilled chicken, chips, salad, €12) designed for school groups, but the local choice is Bar Encina opposite the church. Try gurupina, a thick almond-garlic soup fortified with saffron and stale bread. Order the media ración first—it arrives in a cereal bowl but expands like concrete in the stomach. Migas—fried breadcrumbs with chorizo and grapes—comes sizzling in the pan and is properly stoddy on a cold day. The house red from Guadix is drinkable, €2.50 a glass, and tastes better when you discover the bodega is housed in a cave that once sheltered Civil War refugees.

Vegetarians should ask for papas a lo pobre: potatoes slow-fried with green pepper and cumin. Dessert is usually a slice of cake the size of a house brick; the almond version keeps for a week if you pocket half for the walk back. There is no evening menu del día—kitchens close at 22:00 sharp and the village is silent by half past.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving Again

Granada airport is 75 minutes away by hire car; the last 20 km feel longer because the road twists like a dropped ribbon. Petrol stations are scarce after Guadix, so fill up. An ALSA bus leaves Granada’s Estación de Autobuses at 15:30 on weekdays, arriving 17:05; the return departs 06:45, which means an overnight stay whether you planned it or not. There is no taxi rank—book a transfer in advance (€90–110) if you are flight-dependent.

Accommodation divides into three tiers: the spa hotel (modern, pool, €90 B&B), four village apartments rented by the council (spotless, €45, keys from the ayuntamiento), and a clutch of rural cortijos on surrounding lanes. Cave houses in nearby Gorafe look romantic on Airbnb but check sat-nav coordinates first—Google once directed a couple from Manchester into a quarry. Mobile coverage on EE and Vodafone is patchy inside stone walls; WhatsApp messages arrive in clumps when you step into the plaza.

The Catch (There Always Is)

Villanueva de las Torres is quiet—really quiet. If you crave craft beer, live music, or somewhere to buy a newspaper in English, stay in Granada and visit on a day trip. The thermal pool closes Monday for cleaning, and the village ATM can run out of cash on a Friday when the pension queue forms. In August the mercury can reach 42 °C; in January the wind whistles down from the Sierra Harana and makes 5 °C feel like minus two. Come prepared, or the village will remind you that “interior” means both “inland” and “no nonsense”.

Stay longer than a night, though, and the place starts to work on you. You begin to recognise the bakery van’s horn, to nod at the old men who occupy the same bench every morning, to plan your walk so you reach the bar as the churros emerge from the oil. The spa water leaves your skin smelling faintly of sulphur, a souvenir no one else on the flight home will share. And as the Granada lights appear on the horizon afterwards, you realise the village has given you what the coast rarely does: twenty-four hours without a single sales pitch, and the chance to reset your own clock to bread, bells, and the slow drip of warm water through ancient stone.